By my hand will you achieve victory, o Conan. By my will, alone. I shall prepare it, and you will reap what I have sown. Be thankful, for I am yours to worship.
Conan, take this, your sword, and keep it before you always. With this sign, you will conquer.
There comes a time, thief, when the jewels cease to sparkle, when the gold loses its luster, when the throne room becomes a prison, and all that is left is a father's love for his child.
He is Conan, The Cimmerian, he won't cry. So I cry for him.
My child, you have come to me, my son. For who now is your father if it is not me? I am the well spring, from which you flow. When I am gone, you will have never been. What would your world be, without me? My son.
Food! Give me food! So I have strength, when the wolves come. Let me die not in hunger, but in combat!
Civilization...ancient and wicked.